


Things We Learn, Things We Keep

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Bad Parenting, Delirium, Douglas has some deep wounds, Fever, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Martin has a big heart, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas apologizes constantly when he's ill.  Martin finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Learn, Things We Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Thank yous (as always) to Sproid, mxdp, and pudu. You guys are the best. ♥ 
> 
> This fic touches very briefly on the death of a child (non-graphically).

In the two years they’ve been officially together (to say nothing of the seven months they were unofficially together and the three years they flew together before that), Martin thinks he’s learned everything about Douglas there is to know. He knows how Douglas takes his tea, that being the smooth Sky God on long trips absolutely exhausts him, and which way his hair is most likely to stick up in the morning. 

He discovers that he doesn’t quite know everything the first time Douglas catches the flu after they start living together. Martin wakes up one cold November morning at five minutes before six exactly, same as every day despite having only got in from his solo flight five hours prior. Unusually, Douglas is not beside him. Martin slips on one of Douglas’s jumpers over his t-shirt and pads out into the sitting room, yawning and stretching as he goes. He completely misses Douglas the first time he passes the sofa, eyes intent on the coffee maker already burbling happily with its first pot of the day. His brain catches up with his body moments later, and he finally processes the Douglas-shaped nest of blankets and pillows on the far end of the sofa.

Curious, he walks back into the room, sitting next to where he assumes Douglas’s shoulder will be, placing his hand on the blanket-covered lump and shaking gently. Douglas doesn’t stir. Knowing that waking him up before 9 am on a non-work day is hazardous to the health of a Martin, he shrugs slightly and returns to the kitchen, preparing his coffee and sipping it in quiet contemplation. It’s not too unusual for Douglas to migrate to the sofa when he’s had one of his recurring nightmares, but Martin’s usually in tune with those and wakes up enough to see him leave. No, this time Douglas has snuck off furtively, as if he’s trying to hide something.

Martin drops softly onto the portion of the sofa not occupied by a slightly-snoring First Officer and rests his free hand on Douglas’s ankle. It takes a while to register, but Martin eventually becomes aware of an unusual heat from under the blanket. Douglas usually runs a bit warm, but not _hot_ like this. Martin sneaks his hand under the blanket and between the leg of Douglas’s sleep trousers and his socks, testing the skin he finds there. Hot and tight, almost uncomfortably so. Martin is concerned. This _might_ just be worth waking up Douglas for.

Martin sets down his empty mug and moves to the other end of the Douglas-shaped lump. Gently, he unwraps the blanket, finding only the top of Douglas’s head peeking out from behind a sofa cushion. It takes a bit of doing, unwinding the death grip on cushion, but Martin finally manages it, uncovering a Douglas with an ashen face, shivering fiercely. Concerned, Martin rests the back of his hand on Douglas’s forehead, then on both of his cheeks in turn. The fever is high, but more worrying is the fact that Douglas, normally extraordinarily attuned to deviations in his sleeping environment, hasn’t stirred an inch from when Martin first found him.

Martin shakes Douglas’s shoulder gently. “Douglas,” he says. “Douglas, I need you to wake up for a second.”

Douglas doesn’t stir.

Martin pauses a moment in thought. “First Officer Richardson, up at at ‘em! You’re late for your flight!”

Douglas is still immobile, uncaring.

“That was stupid,” Martin mutters at him. “It’s not as if you ever actually worry about being on time. Douglas, get up! There’s sushi in the kitchen.”

Douglas snuffles awake a bit, although clearly after only great effort. “M’rt’n. Why’re you shouting?” he asks blearily.

Martin cups the back of Douglas’s neck, thumbing at the hair at his nape. “I wasn’t shouting. You’re looking a bit unwell, and I wanted to talk to you.”

Douglas leans forward until he head is resting on Martin’s thigh. “Oh.”

Martin’s hand slides up to cup his cheek. “I think you have a fever. How do you feel?”

Douglas hums a bit, in a way Martin’s come to translate as “Not good, but not bad enough to tell you.”

Martin strokes through the hair at his temple and quizzes him softly with yes or no questions. Fever, chills, nausea, headache, fatigue all yesses; noes for upset stomach, sniffles, sneezing, and coughing. Martin lets his hand rest on the side of Douglas’s neck. 

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

Douglas grunts and turns over, burrowing further into the couch.

“Alright, then.” Martin smiles fondly at Douglas’s back. “Another blanket, then?”

Douglas nods shortly and Martin hurries off, returning with the promised blanket, a glass of water, and a thermometer. It’s the work of only a few moments to take his temperature, convince him to drink the water, and wedge himself between Douglas and the back of the sofa, throwing the blanket over the two of them. Douglas attaches to Martin like a limpet and drifts slowly back to sleep, lulled by Martin’s fingers in his hair and broad hand on the back of his neck.

Martin snags the remote for the television and spends the next few hours watching mind-numbing programming while helping Douglas through the alternating chills and heat, in an endless procession of taking off jumpers and blankets only to put them back on twenty or thirty minutes later. Douglas’s fever rises steadily and Martin takes his temperature every half hour like clockwork. Once it reaches 39 degrees and lasts there for a bit, Martin begins to plan. He carefully detaches himself from Douglas, who has started to mumble unhappily into Martin’s chest.

Martin gathers supplies for the first phase of his attack and returns to the sitting room, where Douglas has curled up into the smallest ball Martin’s ever seen a grown man make. It takes a bit of coaxing, but he manages to convince him to take a dose of paracetamol and to lay out flat on the sofa, allowing Martin to strip off his jumper and wipe at his face, chest, neck, and arms. Douglas is still mumbling, though Martin can’t make out anything in particular. He assumes it’s various imprecations about his “mother henning” or his “nursing technique.” He’s been with Douglas long enough he can almost hear the teasing in his head.

His efforts seem for naught, as Douglas’s fever starts to climb again, hovering half a degree higher than before. Martin manages to feed Douglas another dose of medicine and convince him to stick to a soft t-shirt and a lighter blanket, promising to cuddle him in exchange for the cooler clothes and bedding. He only gets a snarky comment from head-Douglas; the real article seems too engrossed in making sure Martin doesn’t leave and apologizing for being a bother. Now that he’s close enough, with Douglas sprawled across his chest, arms looped around Martin’s neck, he can hear the actual words Douglas has been muttering for hours now.

“I’m sorry,” Douglas says. “I don’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

Martin assumes he’s apologizing for ruining their plans for the day and tries to reassure him. “No worries, love. It’s raining too hard to have gone out anyway. Don’t worry.”

Douglas shakes his head minutely. “No. Don’t know what I did. But sorry. I’ll try harder.”

Martin frowns in confusion, but says nothing, settling for sweeping Douglas’s fringe away from where it’s fallen in his eye. “Shh. Sleep now. You can figure it out later.”

With a soft huff, Douglas melts against Martin's chest again, his slow breaths gusting against Martin's neck. They lay there until the early afternoon, when Martin convinces Douglas to finish most of a mug of tea and half a bowl of soup before he loses him to sleep and delirium again, fever spiking another half a degree, edging nearer and nearer to 40. Hours pass without his temperature dropping, and Martin grows increasingly concerned. However Martin himself feels about the issue, Douglas has an almost pathological dislike of hospitals, and Martin is intent on not playing that card until absolutely necessary. Finally, fed up with cold cloths and Douglas's pitiful expression, he decides to try a bath.

It takes a bit of doing, but he hauls Douglas upright, prodding him down the hallway like a cattle rustler, using soft words of encouragement and gentle nudges to propel Douglas into the cooler room. Martin tries to keep hold of Douglas while starting the bath, but it proves too awkward, so he props the older man against the wall.

"Don't move," he admonishes gently. “Give me just a second.”

Douglas nods blearily, then closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the cool tile of the wall. Martin sets the taps just above leukwarm, waiting until there’s a few inches of water in the tub before he speaks again.

"Alright Douglas," he says over his shoulder. "You can get in now."

There’s no response. Curious, Martin turns to him just as Douglas starts to drift off and his back begins to slip down the tile.

"Damnit." He's just in time to catch Douglas's shoulders, pinning him awkwardly against the wall.

Douglas startles awake. "Wh'... Martin, w's wrong?"

Martin glares at him halfheartedly. "You almost bashed your head on the sink, is what's wrong. Come on, take off your kit before I’m forced to practice my first aid on you."

Douglas doesn't make a joke, just silently starts to strip, clumsy and slow, getting caught up in his shirt sleeves. Rather than see him struggle, Martin guides him to sit on the closed lid of the toilet and gently maneuvers his shirt off. Douglas's head droops forward until it comes to rest on Martin's sternum as the younger man finishes removing the rest of his clothes as swiftly as he can, tugging at Douglas's arm when he's finished until he's finally upright again and maneuvering into the tub. 

"Pull your legs up," he says, receiving only a blank look in return. He taps Douglas's kness. "Up!" he says.

Douglas responds better to the firm instruction and leans forward with his chest resting on his thighs.

"Stay here," Martin says and runs out to find a clean face cloth and a large plastic beaker from the kitchen. He's not gone for more than three minutes, but it's apparently too long for Douglas, who is standing unsteadily in the tub, one hand braced against the wall, trying to step out onto the rug. Just as Martin steps in, Douglas's knees turn to jelly and he pitches forward. Martin is barely in time to catch him for a second time that afternoon, getting soaked in the process. He sighs and rests his forehead against Douglas's shoulder.

"Must you always be so damn stubborn?" he asks. "Couldn't you once, just once, let things go?'

Douglas shudders in his arms, dripping wet and miserable. "Too stubborn," he agrees. "It's punishment for stubborn."

"A punishment?" Martin is confused, but gets no answers from Douglas, just a quick nod and an amazing-sounding "You came back."

"Of course I came back," Martin says. "Where did you think I was going?"

Douglas shrugs despondently, muttering into Martin's shoulder and then, once he’s seated back in the tub, his own thighs, alternating between apologies and gratitude. Martin sighs and returns to his self-appointed task. He starts with Douglas’s back and chest, trying to get as much wet as possible. Douglas starts shivering, but his temperature doesn’t seem to go down any. Martin feels a twinge of guilt when the older man starts sniffling, wrapping his arms around his shins like a child but presses on, focused on relieving the fever even slightly.

“Tilt your head forward,” he says, pushing gently on the cowlick on the back of Douglas’s head. Douglas complies slowly, resting his forehead on his knees while Martin pours cups of water over his hair. He takes his time lathering it with shampoo, massaging behind Douglas’s ears and the back of his neck until his hands start to tire. Douglas has drifted off into a state of weary lucidity by the time Martin is satisfied that his temperature’s dropped enough. He slides one hand under Douglas’s wet fringe, cupping it to protect his eyes as he rinses out the shampoo.

Drying Douglas and helping him into clean sleep clothes and then into bed takes longer than Martin would have thought. Douglas’s limbs seem made of jelly, and he seems desperately unhappy about something. With a final wet sniffle, he curls up on his side, clutching Martin’s pillow and snuffling gently. Just as he’s about to drift off, Martin returns from cleaning up the bathroom and slides into his side of the bed. Douglas curls up even tighter, intent on making himself as unnoticeable as possible for a six-foot-two, sixteen stone man.

Martin settles with a book, looking curiously at Douglas when he doesn’t move. At first, he thinks Douglas is asleep, but the pillow wrapped in a tight clench gives him away. In fact, every muscle in Douglas’s body seems tense enough to snap.

“Douglas,” Martin calls softly. “How you doing over there?”

Douglas raises his head, blinking owlishly over his shoulder before his expression clears somewhat. “Fine,” he says. “Jus’ fine. What’re you readin’?”

Martin is not fooled by Douglas’s attempt at deflection. “Are you sure? You seem...well, uncomfortable, I guess.”

“No. Fine, th’ks.”

Martin feels a small surge of frustration at Douglas’s unwillingness to ask for what he needs. “For Christ’s sake, Douglas.”

“Hmm? Oh You’re right. I’m sorry. Should know better.” Douglas starts to slide over to the edge.

Martin is flabbergasted. “What do mean ‘should know better’? Where are you going?”

Douglas stops in his tracks. “Erm...to the couch. Or the guest room, if that’s better.”

“Why on earth---” Martin tears himself away from that thought, tugging on Douglas’s sleeve until he shuffles closer and arranging him so he’s sprawled over his chest. Douglas wraps his arms around Martin’s neck again, in a repeat of their cuddle on the couch earlier. It’s a position that seems comforting to him, although Martin doesn’t know why.

“You’re an absolute berk sometimes, you know that?”

Douglas snuffles a bit into Martin’s shoulder, shifting until he’s comfortable. Eventually, as he’s drifting off to sleep again, he says "Thank you for staying. I'll be less stubborn, I'm sorry." Martin’s left to ponder that while Douglas sleeps. Eventually, tired of trying to piece together too few clues, Martin drifts off as well.

It’s nearly two am when Martin wakes again, famished and hot. He extricates himself carefully from Octo-Douglas and wanders into the kitchen for a snack and the thermometer. Hunger satisfied, he’s startled when he turns around and finds Douglas stood there in the doorway, blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry.”

Douglas shakes his head and heads for the tap, drinking a full glass and a bit of another before he turns back to Martin. 

“Don’t worry,” he rasps, voice like honey over gravel. “You didn’t.” He tries to clear his throat.

Martin steps across the kitchen and lays his hand on Douglas’s forehead. It’s cooler than before, though hotter than he’d like. Still, trending in the right direction. They migrate back to the bedroom, Douglas already stifling yawns, and settle into position. Martin ends up stretched out on his back and Douglas lies with his head resting on Martin’s chest, a leg thrown over his knees. Martin toys with the hair at the nape of Douglas’s neck, twisting it to curl between his fingers. 

“Douglas,” he says after they’ve been lying there a while in the dark silence. “What are you sorry for?”

Douglas hums an enquiring note. “What?”

Martin explains, about the apologizing, and the “punishment” and the leaving the bed. Douglas is silent for a long time after Martin stops speaking, though his hand clenches tightly around the portion of Martin’s shirt in his fist.

“It’s not---” he starts and then can’t seem to continue. Martin is instantly regretful.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

Douglas clings a little tighter, and lowers his head so his fringe covers his eyes. “No, no. It’s fine. It’s just...difficult. But, I think you should know, and I...I _want_ to tell you.”

Martin hugs him tightly as Douglas begins.

“My sister Emily--”

“You have a sister?” Martin asks.

Douglas sighs. “I can’t tell this if you interrupt. I don’t _have_ a sister, I _had_ a sister.”

Martin flushes in guilt and squeezes Douglas briefly. 

Douglas’s voice grows softer in memory. “She was very young. Meningitis, you see. It was...a difficult time for everyone. She was tough, and fought for a long time, but it wasn’t... And my father had absolutely adored her. But he was very religious, and couldn’t understand why his prayers hadn’t worked. It ate at him, I suppose, and he grew....mad in his grief.”

Martin slides his hand to capture Douglas’s where it’s picking at a stray thread on the blanket, slotting their fingers together.

“He...it must have been punishment for sin, there was no other explanation he could think of. And he just couldn’t handle the thought and he left. But not before he made sure I understood.” A hint of...something behind the hoarse tones.

“How old were you then?” Martin asks.

“Five.”

Martin frowns. “Where was your mother in all of this?”

“At a charity event, or traveling the world, or some grand gala.” A shrug, and then a much smaller, rougher voice. “Or, alternately, at the bottom of a bottle of pills.” His voice gives way, a combination of illness and hidden heartbreak and he lies there, waiting for Martin to judge him too broken, too imperfect to waste any more of his time on.

Things start to slot into place for Martin: the aversion to hospitals, the intense pain of Douglas’s own addiction, the way his voice breaks when he speaks of his daughter Emily. 

The expected condemnation never comes. Instead, Martin tugs Douglas more tightly to him and keeps up the steady stream of petting. There’s nothing to say, nothing that _can_ be said. Martin has an instinct for these situations and knows anything he tries will slide off long-fortified shields. Instead, he does the only thing he can think of: holds Douglas closer and stays.

It’s another three days before Douglas is fully well again. Unfortunately, MJN has another flight in that time. Douglas does the best he can, but Martin carries the majority of the workload. It’s enough for Douglas to remain vertical and ventilated, and he concentrates on not falling asleep in the plane. The night is spent in the hotel room, where Martin orders room service, which Douglas refuses in favor of sleep. He’s a little warmer than usual, but Martin’s not surprised after a 16 hour flight so soon after his illness. 

They never speak of Emily again and Martin makes it a point to never bring up any part of what he learned in the pre-dawn darkness that night. Douglas is more grateful than he could ever hope to express for the kindness.

Eight months later, Douglas hesitantly books both of them for a day off in the middle of the week. Carolyn uncharacteristically makes no comment, just raises her eyebrows at Douglas in surprise when she sees the two names on the wall chart in red ink. Douglas won’t discuss plans for the time off with Martin, just shakes his head in silent warning and changes the subject rapidly.

On the appointed day, Martin wakes to find Douglas already up, wrapped in a blanket on the sofa and reading in the pale light of dawn. He doesn’t say anything as he wanders into the kitchen for coffee, just runs his hand lightly through Douglas’s hair as he passes and then curls up next to Douglas on the sofa with his mug in hand, reading over his shoulder. Douglas is a very fast reader, a trick he picked up at school, but he deliberately slows down for Martin who he knows likes to savor every word. The morning passes this way, in gentle companionship, until Douglas suggests lunch out.

Martin easily agrees, and the afternoon finds the two of them in an out-of-the-way place where he’s never been before. They eat slowly, and if Douglas is slightly more quiet than usual, Martin doesn’t comment. After lunch, they go for a long walk, led by Douglas, that meanders through side streets and alleys, until they alight on a small patch of grass with a wrought-iron fence around it. Martin starts to get a sinking suspicion of where they are, one that’s only confirmed when they stop in front of a small marble marker. “Emily Marie Richardson,” it says. “1952-1960. Beloved daughter, now in the hands of angels.”

They stand there in silence for a while, until Martin threads his arm through Douglas’s elbow and squeezes gently. Douglas clears his throat, a bit wetly. 

“Emily,” he starts. “This is Martin.”


End file.
